


Parallel

by Irenthel



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Pre-Mists of Pandaria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 11:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15751131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irenthel/pseuds/Irenthel
Summary: In the aftermath of Theramore, Thrall and Tyrande find a brief moment of common ground.





	Parallel

It’s unsettling when Thrall next sees Jaina, seated across from him in a convened council brought to discuss what will no doubt be a failed peace treaty. She speaks coldly, an edge to her voice that he never knew before, all that gold-and-sun warmth gone from her. He thinks back to when they first met, the resolve in her eyes as she pulled her staff from her back, ready to fight. The sound of horror in her voice as she challenged Medivh’s instructions. That weary little blonde and pink girl, that spitting image of Taretha, standing just a few yards away, her eyes darting back and forth with mild disgust.

Even then, she had not been so harsh. He pulls his face into what is probably a grimace, and listens to the arguments of those around him, drowns out that sickly feeling in his stomach with rebuttals and steady explanations. After a while, he notices her watching him, the gaze becoming less haughty as the hours pass. They do not address each other directly, but by the time the council breaks for the evening, she is staring at the floor. Thrall finds that, at times, so is he.

They’re always given the option at these sorts of affairs to take a portal home for the night, but Thrall finds it a much greater showing of solidarity to stay, even just to sleep. But the bed feels stark and dull, and he thinks with a low laugh that perhaps he has been married too long, he cannot even rest without his life-mate beside him. And so he finds himself out on the terrace, staring at the full, engulfing brightness of the moons, wishing to be surrounded by hearth-fires and holding his son in his arms.

“It is said,” begins a voice behind him, and he turns to see the graceful form of Tyrande Whisperwind approaching him. “That when the demigod Cenarius was slain in the forests of Ashenvale, stars fell from the heavens for three nights, streaking across the sky for all to see. The tears of Elune, mourning for her son.”

She stops beside him, her hair strewn with ornamental leaves of silver, and the pure white of her jeweled robe shining with an almost ethereal light, as if absorbing and reflecting the beams of the moon. Her eyes stay on the great orb of the White Lady, but Thrall feels as if she is staring right at him. He bows his head, that old shame creeping on. Tyrande has never been one for mincing words, and he knows that defending Grom to her after all these years will do nothing. 

“I am sorry,” he says, and means it. Tyrande looks at him, then, silvery eyes boring directly into his own. He’d forgotten how tall she was.

“Do not apologize. You must fix what your lack of judgment has wrought. Just as it was then, so it is now." Thrall sets himself, watches her carefully.

"I did not know Garrosh would become… this. I believed he would take the lessons and wrongs of his father to heart, and make better of it." 

"Despite prior warnings?" Her voice is clipped, and she raises her chin just a hair. Thrall sighs, and diverts his gaze once more. This is not a battle he is going to win.

And then there is her hand on his arm, lavender against green, and her touch is soft, friendly. It’s a momentary thing, a gentle squeeze and it’s gone, but when he looks up again Tyrande’s face has softened, and she is smiling.

"You trusted him. He was your friend. And you wanted your people to see what you saw, wanted him to seek and achieve redemption for himself. You wanted harmony, and for past wrongs to be overwritten, for your people to have a powerful champion at their behest once more." Her smile, he notices, is more nostalgia than true happiness, and her lips twitch at the edges. And he had never thought that she held Illidan’s betrayal so dear to her heart as he held Grom and Garrosh.

They stand there, like old acquaintances rediscovering each other anew, and Thrall wonders if she dares even voice her misplaced faith to her goddess, if she wanders at night redrawing her decisions and mistakes in her mind. He had forgotten the stories he’d heard, of the two brothers and the priestess. And as Tyrande looks at him, cast in pale moonlight, eyes unusually glossy, he knows she was the only one that mourned the loss of Illidan, who loved her even into madness. Grom redeemed himself, slew the demon that controlled him. Illidan became the monster.

"We have made our mistakes, Earth-Warder. But we must see them through to the end, and repair the damage done to those dear to us." Tyrande smiles again at him, brighter, before returning her gaze to the moon. She is positively luminous, and Thrall sees not for the first time why she is the chosen of Elune. He shifts and raises himself to his full height, and watches with her.

"I think it may be too late to repair some damages,” he confides, and thinks of the rubble of Theramore, of Jaina with fury and death in her eyes as she attacks him, of how cold and foreign she has become. Tyrande hums noncommittally, and says nothing. A breeze picks up, and rustles the hems of their robes. They stand in a heavy silence, and Thrall wonders if Tyrande is done speaking entirely.

“We were all friends, once,” she says finally, and it comes out wistfully, almost like an afterthought. Thrall furrows his brow. “Or allies, at least, for a time. I do not like the Horde, and I will fight to my death against their injustices. But I am not so foolish or harsh so as to be unable to admire honor when I see it. I have fought beside Orcs, and found some of them to be worthy of songs and the highest of glories. Sargeras himself should tremble.”

Thrall feels a strange mix of grief and empowerment in the deep confines of his heart, and his mouth feels dry at what she seems to be suggesting. Tyrande turns to leave, and as their eyes meet, she falls into one last smile, and it carves dimples on her cheeks.

“I am no Broxigar,” he says, breathless, and she brushes her fingers against his arm once more.

“No,” she agrees, but her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Goodnight, Warchief.”

Thrall opens his mouth to correct her as she retreats, but she looks back at him with a very serious, grave expression, daring him to counter her. He nods, and she wanders back into the building without a sound as he turns his attention to the whisper of the spirits. Perhaps it is time to fix this.

**Author's Note:**

> Found this piece from a whole 5 years ago, and decided to post it here. :') I hope everybody enjoyed it.


End file.
